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SONG OF THE SOUTHLAND 



Song of the Southland 

AND OTHER POEMS 

BY 
CLAUDIUS LYSIAS CHILTON 




Montgomery, Alabama 

THE PARAGON PRESS 

MCMXI 



COPYRIGHTED 1911 
BY ARTHUR BOUNDS CHILTON 



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ONE HUNDRED COPIES 
THIS VOLUME NO. l_ 



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CONTENTS 








A Song of the Southland ... 1 


A Search for the Christ 






14 


To the Mocking-Bird 






18 


The Magic Wheel 






20 


The Unseen World 






22 


Be Still, Heart! 






25 


To My Love .... 






26 


Compensation 






27 


The Dying Year 






28 


Wiil o' the Wisp 






27 


Converted 






31 


'Tin-Ware to Mend" 






33 


My Love's a Canny Thief 






35 


To a Wild Rose 






37 


Glorying in the Cross 






38 


Left by the Tide 






40 


Remember Now Thy Creator 






44 


A Reporter's Experience 






49 


Death of John T. Morgan 






54 


The Battle of Wouyided Knee 






55 


The Bridge o'er the Rolling-Tidi 






57 


Would You? 






61 


"Allons, Enfants — " 






62 


After All ... 






63 



[v] 



TO 

THE MEMORY OF 

MY PRECIOUS WIFE 



The faithful wife the common hardships bears, 
Sweetens all joys, and softens all their cares. 

— Song of the Southland 



SONG OF THE SOUTHLAND 



A Song of the Southland 

Blow softly, South-wind, o'er the land to-day, 
And murmur sweetly as I tune my lay. 
Let fragrant zephyrs touch ^^iolian strings, — 
A tardy poet, of the Southland sings — 
Sings of the land where the magnolias grow ; 
Sings of the land where crystal rivers flow — 
How lavish Nature, weary on her round 
Of blessing, here at length a country found, 
That pleased her so she emptied all her charms 
And slept serenely in the Southland's arms; 
But, softly sleeping, smiles amid her dreams, 
As lingering Phoebus kisses her with beams, 
And showering roses on her bosom fair. 
Himself he nestles in a dew-drop there. 
But more ; as when young Hermes sought the fold. 
And found the lyre which proved more worth than 

gold, 
Sing, me, the kind and providential Hand 
That made a people that should suit the land; 
How, while for youth Ponce de Leon sought. 
And Cortez, gold, each in his turn, they wrought 
A mighty work (though neither found his aim) — 
That blessed the world and kept the founder's 

name; 
That served at length — ^though neither knew its 

worth — 
To smooth the cradle for a Nation's birth. 

There was a day when Eden's charms were vain. 
Though gleeful birds sang in melodious strain; 



Though flowers blushed, kissed by the passing 

breeze, 
Though golden fruits hung luscious from the trees ; 
As 'mid its lonely dells its Maker trod, 
All Nature looked expectant to its God. 
He thought — and, answering the prayer, 
Created MAN and placed him sovereign there. 
Then Nature smiled, and, kneeling at his feet, 
Acknowledged Him and harmony complete. 

As there, so here; the beauteous virgin land 
Reached out to God her tender, jewelled hand. 
And sighed and longed, — unconscious of her 

charms, — 
To clasp a lover in her virtuous arms. 
Then spread the sails, and eager plowed the tide, 
Sir Raleigh's gallant fleet to meet the bride, 
Who, half concealed beneath her hazy veil, 
Tim'rous, at length, espied the pouting sail ; 
And echoing cliffs replied as Ocean spoke — 
When Raleigh's barque ran into Ocracoke — 
"Man, wed the Land," in tones of deepest thunder, 
"What God hath joined, let no man put asunder." 
But calmed and smiled as England's white-sailed 

ships. 
Sealed the great vow, and kissed Virginia's lips. 
Then tossed the trees their plumes ; waves clapped 

their hands. 
To welcome such a people to their lands. 
And singing hills the story twice told o'er. 
Of the glad nuptials on old Roanoke's shore. 

So wed, the balmy air, the sunny days, 
Found man congenial to their generous ways; 
[2] 



The gentle seasons and the fertile soil. 
Responding promptly to the laborer's toil, 
Beauty and plenty smiled on every hand — 
God blessed the people and he blessed the land. 

From time to time adventurous hundreds came, 
To share the new-found country's fate or fame — 
And who were these? Not paupers who had fled 
From crowded huts to find their scanty bread; 
Not criminals who fled their native lands 
To thwart fair justice and the law's demands; 
But men of virtue, honor and good name. 
Whose deeds heroic gave their countries fame; 
Aye, men of might, who loved to see unfurled 
Their country's banner o'er a new-found world; 
Within whose breasts there burned Promethean 

fires, 
And great achievements prompted whose desires: 
Men, at the keen glance of whose flashing eye 
The howling wolf and leering jaguar fly — 
They came; and soon there stretched along the 

coast 
A mighty cordon of a mightier host 
At whose firm tread primeval forests shake, 
The savage flees and peace and plenty wake. 
Proud be ye vales that shelter e'en the bones 
Of men like these ; and prouder yet their sons, 
Who bear the Anglo-Saxon name and face. 
For never trod the earth a nobler race. 
No wonder that from such a stock there grew 
A people good and great and brave and true. 

But see the line advance; The Hunter's horn 
Winds o'er the hills and ushers in the morn, 
[3] 



startles the tim'rous stag that fleeing bounds 
Through forests deep that echo to the hounds. 

As speeds the Night at first approach of Day 
And westward hies and hides himself away, 
The Huntsman leads the line, and as it moves, 
He dives the deeper in the woods he loves. 
His house a tent, the ground his only bed. 
Living on fare as only lords are fed, 
He builds his camp-fires further in the van 
And clears the forest for more civil man. 

Then come the out-posts of that moving band 
Soon to possess and beautify the land — 
The blue smoke rises from the shady spot 
Where the bold Woodman builds his humble cot. 

Split boards uneven constitute the floor. 

On wooden hinges creaks th' unwilling door, 

Above whose frame, dependent, grows a gourd. 

The table is in very deed a board, 

But white and clean, and well supplied with food, 

While round it heavy puncheon benches stood. 

The beds (of boards) were made into the wall; 

Of furniture this constituted all 

Except a chest or two. The walls were bare 

Save when were hung xhe horn and rifle there. 

In early morning, answering the bird. 
His echoing axe among the hills is heard; 
And as he cuts, at length, with thund'rous sound 
The giant pine-tree, groaning, strikes the ground. 
The gallant cock crows loudly at the door, 
indignant hears the echo, and crows o'er. 
[4] 



The hardy children, clad in homely goods, 
In happy freedom roam amid the woods, 
Watching the squirrels, gathering wild flowers 
Oblivious in their glee of passing hours; 
Timid of danger, yet they feel no fear. 
Their faithful watch-dog lingering ever near. 

The home is humble and the fare is rough, 
But this with health and freedom is enough, 
The faithful wife the common hardships bears, 
Sweetens all joys, and softens all their cares; 
And thus in peace the day goes on, until 
The twilight meets the plaintive whip-poor-will; 
When, gathered all around the blazing fire, 
They sup in peace, and to sweet sleep retire ; 
And who will say that in this lonely cot . 
No pleasure dwelt, and happiness was not? 
Peace knows no quarters — happiness, no bound; 
But dwell wherever toil and love are found. 

All honor, brave men, that, oblivious, wrought 
The warp of our greatness ! Who has thought 
Historic pen or poet's art to tax, 
To praise the heroes that have swung the axe? 
I sing your virtues, and, though tardy, tell 
How many a worthy yoeman bravely fell 
At duty's post, uplifted axe in hand. 
All hontDr to that brave heroic band! 

But on the column moves ; and soon we find 
A mightier host the Woodsman close behind. 
On many a hill-top at whose base there flows 
A crystal spring, the Southern Farm-House rose. 
Beneath the oaks whose giant arms outspread 
[5] 



In silent benediction o'er its head. 

How like a bride it sat, robed all in white, 

Who, timid, had half veiled herself from sight 

In honeysuckle vines thrown o'er her face 

Which more revealed than hid her loveliness. 

Lovely without, within more lovely still, 

Here was the home of Plenty and Good-will. 

The ample porches, open door, wide hall, 

A hearty welcome spoke to one and all. 

The weary traveler found a respite here, 

Food for his horse, and for himself good cheer; 

A smoking supper and a cheerful light, 

An early bed, a cordial "good-night." 

The hardy Farmer and his thrifty wife 
See good the most and least the ills of life. 
No earthly station, though we all have care, 
With theirs in true contentment can compare. 
For, as it should be, he that turns the sod, 
Toils in a sphere blest and ordained of God. 
There is a law, despise it ye who may. 
That blesses him who treads in nature's way, 
And all inventions lead to double toil 
That lure the laborer from his native soil. 

With the first streaks of the approaching morn, 
The Farmer wakes and blows the rising-horn. 
The busy house-wife briskly moves about, 
And servants come as quickly in and out. 
The cack'ling poultry vie with barking dogs ; 
The saucy pea-cock, with the squealing hogs ; 
The mistress calls, the gobbler prompt replies; 
The children laugh, the suff 'ring kitten cries ; 
The cows, unmilked, low, waiting at the gate; 
[6] 



The milk-maid sings, the calves impatient bleat; 
The men halloo, the answering horses neigh; 
The slumbering world bursts laughing into day. 
All nature wakes, and in her loudest voice, 
Unanimous resolves to make a noise; 
But breakfast o'er, and eaten to the full, 
The day's work is begun and prattlers lull. 

Man is a savage, so by some 'tis said, 

According as to when and how he's fed ; 

If empty, bad, if full he's very good; 

Then look ye house-wives to your liege-lord's food. 

The jolly Farmer's face to all declares, 

If true or not, exactly how he fares. 

For ruddy cheeks though not a proof of wealth, 

Prove what is better — happiness and health. 

blest employment! why should men invent 
So many roads that lead to discontent, 
And seek in ways with never ceasing toil 
What nature proffers in a generous soil? 
Ye starving thousands, pent in attics high, 
Who live in clouds but never see the sky, 
Ye pale and haggard, bending o'er the loom, 
Watching the shuttle as it weaves your doom, 
Quit your dark holes, and factory's bleak wall, 
Turn to the fields where peace and plenty call. 
Be true or not that giants have their birth 
'Twixt Supernatural Influence and the Earth, 
One thing we know — where'er greatness is found. 
It, some how, has connection with the ground. 
Look hist'ry o'er, at arms, in church, in State, 
A nation farmless, never has been great. 
There is a freedom in the country air, 
[7] 



That, true to nature, those who breathe it, share. 

No craven spirit bows the towering head 

Of him who digs from earth his honest bread. 

And he who 'neath the summer sky has wrought, 

Endurance learns, and independent thought. 

No care-worn heart e'er sinks within his breast, 

Who learns to labor, learns as well to rest. 

But more ; who thoughtful plods the plow behind, 

Gains health and strength of body, soul and mind. 

There is a lesson in the senseless clod, 

All nature's vocal with the thought of God. 

God's providence is writ on every flower; 

Each bursting seed speaks resurrection power; 

While faith and hope are practised every day, 

And spreading corn-leaves teach him how to pray. 

Thus, while he toils and on himself relies. 

Ten thousand fingers point him to the skies. 

The Southern Farmer ! What a part had he 

In early forming Southern destiny! 

Civilization had in him its base — 

And every virtue that has made the race. 

Chiefly in him those forces had their birth 

That made us soon the envy of the earth. 

All honor to the hero of the plow! 

Though long deferred, accept the tribute now. 

\Vhen conquering Caesars waged their bloody wars 

And marched victorious o'er the field of Mars, 

Should they not in this glory equal share 

That tilled the soil whose products kept them 

there? 
Else, why, when hardy yeomen quit their farms 
Did Roman legions, vanquished, ground their 

arm.s ? 
Why wreathe in glory only names of those 
[8] 



That serve a country striking down her foes ? 
Have they alone wrought for a people's good, 
Who wave her banner o'er their brother's blood? 
0, when will warring nations ever learn 
The sword into the pruning-hook to turn — 
Pursue those ends that make a true increase, 
And honor them who ply the arts of peace? 

But hark ! what sweet and clarion notes were those 

That from the grove on yonder hill-top rose? 

A trumpet blast ! Was it a call to arms 

And battle's shock and dreadful wars alarms? 

No ; for before the echo dies among 

The distant hills, it melts into a song 

That floats and swells upon the morning air. 

And marks the place where people meet for prayer. 

Beneath a spacious arbor rudely made 

Of poles and bushes, 'neath whose leafy shade 

Sit eager hundreds. Round on every side 

Are tents and covered wagons where are tied 

Oxen and mules and horses, which have come, 

With weary feet full fifty miles from home. 

The preacher in the pulpit takes his place. 

And "lines" aloud the hymn : "Amazing grace, 

"How sweet the sound that saved a wretch like 

I me." 

Then they all sing with heartfelt melody. 

Song! Who against thy magic power is proof, 
F'rom him wild beasts should even stand aloof, 
For Horace sang and even wolves were tame 
At flowing cadence, and his Lydia's name. 
And when sweet Orpheus touched his dulcet strain 
E'en subborn Argo kissed the foaming main. 
[9] 



And need again the story o'er be told 

How Moab fled as Judah sang of old? 

Or how bold Cromwell bore victorious arms, 

When Roundheads sang, and marched to sound of 

psalms? 
Ye daughters, sing the songs your mothers sang 
When camp-ground echoed and the forest rang. 
happy Nation; yea, thrice happy we. 
Whose cradle rocked to such sweet psalmody. 
Eternity to nothing here belongs. 
But nations live no longer t!ian their songs. 

And now the sermon! Ne'er a need had he 
That preached for gown nor book nor bell ror 

key; 
Nor waited he for bishop's hand or nod — 
He had a message and he spoke from God. 
His words were plain, his sermon had no 

"parts" — 
He loved the people and he touched their hearts; 
Appealed to reason, and aroused their fears; 
But, what was better, melted them to tears. 
As when some mighty storm bends down the trees. 
The weeping hundreds fall upon their knees; 
And prayer and song and shouts commingled 

blend, 
Until the morning and the service end. 
Scoff ye who will, at simple scenes like these.— 
Who preach in starch, and sleep in cushioned 

ease, — 
These were 'he men that bravely led the way 
Up to that greatness you enjoy today. 
From Chesapeake to Rio Grande's mouth 
These Christian heralds traverse all the South, 
[10] 



Through summer's sun, and winter's chilling 

frosts, 
They sound the charge of the advancing hosts. 
They dash through rivers, climb the mountains 

high. 
Sleep on their saddles, cover with — the sky; 
Nor hope for gain, but counting all things loss. 
That they may plant the banner of the Cross. 
Boast ye who may the valor of our arms, 
Religion lends a nation noblest charms, 
Nor rock so firm as that whereon we stand — 
Be this our boast: — This is a Christian land. 
When history builds with equal hand the arch 
That marks the triumph of our nation's march 
To glory and to greatness, she will write 
In during stone the names that made its might, 
Nor deeds nor names its columns shall adorn 
Above the heroes that the Cross have borne. 

As when a host some mighty em'nence gains, 
That tow'ring high commands the widespread 

plains, 
And builds entrenchments on this vantage ground, 
So here the School-House many a hill-top crown- 
ed, — 
Hard by the church. 'Neath oak and pinet^ee's 

shade 
A hundred children loved and laughed and played. 
And thought and wrought, and struggled yet 

again 
O'er tasks undone ; but struggles made them men. 
In early morn from far and near they came, 
With song and shout, all ready for a game, 
Which lasts until the teacher calls for "books" 
[11] 



And spoils at once their laughter and their looks. 
With many a frown they spell at "bot-a-ny" 
Or thread the mazes of "the Rule of Three — " 
Which oft explained is never understood — 
While patient Csesar's "murdered" in cold 

blood ; — 
Wishing the while, he'd died on Gallia's plains, 
And so have saved both boys and Brutus pains. 

These be our strong-holds; for from these are 

hurled 
The shot and shell that shall subdue the world. 
For sure as man is man, and mind is mind. 
Thought is the force that governs all mankind. 
No rattling musketry nor cannon's roar 
Can make or save a land. Look history o'er, 
And mark the heroes that have blindly fought 
With battle-axe the men who wielded thought; 
They fought in vain, nor stone nor story tell 
Even the spot where they ignobly fell. 

Around the church and school-house, year by year. 
The thrifty farmers one by one draw near, 
Till woodlands echo with the busy stroke 
Of ringing hammer; and the curling smoke 
From circling homes ascending mutely shows, 
Where civilization and the village grows. 

As gathering thousands hasten to our land 
A hundred hamlets spring on every hand, 
While villages and towns and cities rise. 
And point their thousands turrets to the skies. 

Like some small stream that from its mountain 
bed 

[12] 



Leaps to the rocks, till, by its fellows fed 

It swells into a rolling river deep 

Whose mighty currents on resistless sweep, — 

Our Country grew ; till, widening to a sea, 

It grandly rolled in its prosperity. 

Its generous acres smiled with waving grain ; 

Its flocks and herds roamed o'er the grassy plain ; 

Its rustling corn-fields teemed with busy throngs, 

Whose glistening hoes kept time to cheerful songs ; 

While snowy cotton flecked ten thousand fields, 

And each resource its part to plenty yields. 

No people ere with such a land was blest, 

No land by such people was possessed. 



Alas, that wealth and greatness should conspire 
To tempt fanatic's hate and base desire 
To rob a people of its sovereign right. 
Sealed by the bond of Constitution's plight! 



But blight of war nor serpent's slimy trail 
Shall e'en suffice to make its lustre pale 
For, long as sun shall shine and rivers flow. 
Amid the stars her sovereign States shall glow, 
Till future ages shall her praise repeat. 
And list'ning Nations crowd around her feet! 

Blest Land, the harps of worthier sons may swell 
With sweeter song and more thy glory tell; 
But none, believe me, count thy children o'er, 
Shall ever live that loved thee. Mother, more. 



[13] 



A Search for the Christ 

My soul went to seek for the Christ. I had heard — 
In my heart I had heard he had come to the earth ; 
Ask ye how I heard it? None knows but my 

spirit : — 
Like the robins hear of the South's warm-breath — 
Like the swallows hear of the Spring. 

And my soul went forth to seek for the Christ: 
The Voice in my heart said, "Seek Him for rest;" 
For my spirit found no home on the earth, 
So I plumed her wings for the Christward flight, 
Like the wood-dove flies to her nest. 

So sought my soul for the Christ : In the way, 
I came to the place of the rich. Quoth my soul, 
"Is He here, whom I seek — ^the Christ of my rest? 
Surely, methinks, I shall find Him here — 
And a balm for my aching breast." 

"Is the Christ of Rest not a gold-crowned Christ? 
Walks He not among vassals in kingly estate? 
Feeds He not among lilies in sumptuous feast? 
Sleeps He not upon roses? Bid Him come to my 
view. 

And grant to my spirit His Rest." 

My soul went to seek for the Christ. I believed — 
I knew in my heart he had come to the earth. 
Ask ye how I knew it? None knows but my 
spirit : — 

[14] 



I saw His Star on a long watch-night, 

When a darkness was over my soul. 

I saw as the eye of a spirit sees spirit — 
As the heart of the rose sees the sun as he shines, 
And redolent petals reach outward in prayer 
To catch, and to blush at his kisses of love ; 
So watched my soul for his Star. 

Said the Star to my soul, "Thou must seek Him 

for Light." 
But the world was dark, and my soul went on 
With outstretched hands, like the blind for the 

sun ; — 
As the watchman waits for the tardy dawn — 
I sought for the Christ of Light. 

I went to the wise and the great. I said, 
"I seek for the Christ of Light; is He here? 
He is wisest of wise. He is teacher and sage. 
Treads He not in the halls of the great men of 
fame? 

Bid Him come." But the search was in 
vain. 

But my soul sought on for the Christ of Rest; 
And winged its way through many a league: 
O'er city full, o'er field and fen; 
I asked the shepherd by the stream 
Where lay the flock asleep. 

I asked the lily on the lake. 
Kissed by the cool and crystal tide; 
I asked the birdling in its nest; — 
[15] 



But my soul sought on till her wings were faint, 
And I sighed for the Christ of Rest. 

I looked and, lo, the Christ, He wrought! 
With sweat-stained face, and patient hand, 
Weary, I saw Him toil for men; 
The day was full of lowly deeds. 

The night was full of prayer. 

I saw the way : I took His yoke, 
I learned of Him, — I knelt in prayer, 
With heart and hands, I, willing wrought; 
I found the holy Rest I sought. 

At last, — my soul-rest there! 

I longed for the Christ of Light ; I sought, 
I looked, and, lo, the Christ, He burned! 
And as the darkness denser grew, 
He poured each talent on the flame — 
And all was light ! I saw. 

I saw the way to Christly light. 
I plucked my heart's best treasure out; 
I gave all to the greedy flame 
And light divine shone round about 
Me also, — for I burned! 

My soul went forth to seek for the Christ — 

I felt in my heart He had come to the earth. 

Ask ye how I knew it? None knows but my 

Spirit ; — 
As the heart thrills sweet when a heavenly Voice 
Sings of love through the depths of the soul. 
[16] 



Said the Song, "Thou must seek Him for Love." 
And I knew in my soul that the thing was true, 
For the world was as cold as the kiss of the dead, 
And Self was king and Hate was lord, 
And the law was gain and greed. 

My heart was sore but I gave it wings. 
And cut the bonds that held it fast, 
And bid it speed in its search for Love, 
And sing for the Love that sang to me 

Like the dove that mourns for its mate. 

So I sought for the Christ of Love. I stood 
By the trysting-place where lovers wooed, 
I knelt by the priest at his early prayer, 
I heard the chant of the vesper choir. 

But I found not the Christ of Love. 

I sought in vain — till my heart wept sore ; 
I wept till all my hope was gone, — 
When I looked again, with grief amazed, — 
And saw one hanging on a cross, — 
Friendless, despised, alone! 

I saw the prints of nails and spear 
I heard his agonizing prayer ; 
It broke my heart to see Him die,— 
/ died — And found within my heart. 
The very Christ of Love! 



[17] 



To the Mocking-Bird 

To him who once thy melody has heard, 
Thou joyous fount of tuneful symphony, 

'Twere sacrilege to call thee "mocking bird ;" 
Master of Song thou art indeed to me! 

Thou imitate? The rest but snatch a strain, — 
A fragment of thine overture divine; — 

Their plebeian throats cannot the whole contain, 
Nor shape themselves to pipe these songs of 
thine. 

These ''imitators" sing Indeed by day, 
And voice the echoes of thy melodies, — 

The night the season for thine orchestry: — 
The holy hush, the tree-top and the skies ! 

Hark! But what waves of soulful poesy 
Are these that roll far outward on the night, 

Till echoes revel in their rh3i;hmic spray — 
Intoxicate of music and delight! 

What epic that of song now flows apace! 

Wake, Homer, wake, and learn anew thine art! 
Nor pen e'er wrote a movement of such grace ; 

This master sings his music to the heart! 

Heaven-taught, thou sing'st of heaven to me! 

Nor holier song was ever heard than thine ; 
Nor string nor pipe has marred thy minstrelsy; 

Sing on of heaven to this heart of mine! 
[18] 



Hail, Angel of the Night! High-priest of Song! 

Thy fellows, flowers of Paradise, are gone; 
And dreary seems the way of earth and long — 

But thou art left. Sweet bird, sing on, sing, on ! 



[19] 



The Magic Wheel 

Once on a time, great Pluto made a feast, 
And called his workmen, greatest all and least, 
And set before them — after they had dined. 
The project great, that lay upon his mind. 

"I want," said he, "to make a great machine — 
The mightiest engine that was ever seen. 
Who brings it first, shall have undying fame 
Where ever mortals praise great Pluto's name. 

Th' occasion ended, once, away they went. 
Each to his forge the mighty thing t' invent. 
And smoke and din filled all the under world, 
While cranks and bands and wheels ten thousand 
whirled. 

At last great Pluto issued his behest, 
That all should bring their engines to the test ; 
And so they pulled and hauled until at length, 
Each ready made to try his engine's strength. 

All sorts were there: small and great, ponderous 

things, 
With thousand wheels and twice ten thousand 

springs. 
One could crush mountains, one, drink rivers dry ; 
One speed o'er ground, another yet could fly. 

Pluto looked on with int'rest and surprise 
Considering to whom belonged the prize, 
[20] 



When a small imp who through the throng had 

pressed, 
Called for his ear and thus the god addressed. 

"Great Pluto, Hear me: Here within my hand 
Lies a machine, sovereign in every land. 
It moves not, yet it moves the whole round earth, 
'Tis seeming worthless, yet esteemed most worth. 

"What it can't do can never more be done, 
As long as rolls the earth beneath the sun. 
It gives the king his power, it armies moves. 
By it war is declared, peace made where it be- 
hooves." 

"Held in the hand, it opens every door, 
All men it worship, be they rich or poor. 
'Tis master of all arts, turns lies to truth. 
Turns yet again the truth to lies, forsooth. 

"It puts in motion twice ten thousand wheels, 
And wins the day on countless battle-fields, — " 
"Hush, Hush," said old Pluto, "let me ask you 
One wonder more, if this great thing can do :" 

"I'm black; my locks kink round about my brow; 
I would be white, with straight hair ; Tell me now 
Can this thing fix me? " "Aye, indeed 'tis so; 
It makes the Ethiop just as white as snow." 

"'Tis mine, 'tis mine," the happy Pluto cried, 
Avaunt, you imps, and all your traps beside. 
Bravo, good imp, thy fame shall e'er be told! 
Thou'st made me mighty with thy wheel of gold." 
[21] 



The Unseen World 

In this world of sense and matter, 

Where the "seen and heard" prove all; 
Where the tests of weight and measure 

Try and judge things great or small; 
Where men hold their little plumb-lines 

By their walls of solid stone — 
There is nought but what they handle, 

There is no world save their own! 

But there is a world about us 

That's more real than we see; 
Though to evil eyes and carnal 

It is wrapped in mystery. 
This world cannot be measured 

By the metes and bounds of men ; 
Its heights and depths, its lengths and breadths, 

Exceed all earthly ken. 

This world is but a shadow 

Of the real world and true ; 
Its brightest skies but glimmerings 

Of the heavens hid from view. 
There are spirit-roses blooming 

In its gardens fair and green 
That no hand of flesh e'er handled, 

No eye of sense has seen. 

There are visions in the spirit-realm 

That poet never told ; 
Surpassing power of language 
[22 J 



Their beauty to unfold. 
The wildest dreams of Fancy 

Cannot paint the gorgeous skies 
That enchant the spirit's vision 

When the scales fall off the eyes. 

There are forms here far more beautiful 

Than sculptor ever wrought — 
Fonns of angelic beauty 

That throng the realms of thought: 
But a veil hides all the angels 

From the dull and faithless eye: 
And all the bright, supernal world 

Is dark in mystery. 

There is music in the soul-land 

That the sweetest voice ne'er sang, 
Save when Judea's hills and vales 

With angel voices rang; 
There are waves of holy passion, 

That flow in from the sea. 
That bear upon their bosoms 

Joys of eternity. 

0, heavy eyes and sightless, 

That are closed to all but clay ! 
That have never opened upward 

For a beam of purer ray ; 
That have never seen the sunrise. 

Nor felt the pure delight 
Of looking with the soul-eyes 

Into realms of heaven's light. 
[23] 



Men look upon the mountain 

As it rugged stands and bare ; 
But they do not see the angels 

That have made their bivouac there. 
0, turn thy gaze from earth-care 

To the upper world of light; 
Raise thy leaden eyes, and cry, "Lord, 

That I may receive my sight." 



[24] 



Be Still, O Heart! 

Be still heart, why shouldst thou be despairing, 
When God — thy God — is ever near thy side? 

His Father-heart is always for thee caring; 
His hand will hold whatever may betide. 

Be still ; be still ; heart of mine, be still. 

Be still, heart, why dread that dark tomorrow? 

Mayhap 'twill be to thee a joyous morn; 
Nor pain, nor woe, nor any earthly sorrow, 

But that for thee the Savior once hath borne; 
Be still ; be still ; heart of mine, be still. 

Be still, heart, God's promise standeth surely, 
Though lies thy path through tempest, flame 
and flood. 

Firm on that rock thou walkest on securely ; 

**Be still," saith He, "and know that I am God." 

Be still ; be still ; heart of mine, be still. 

Be still, heart ; what, though thy way declining, 
Thou bear the cross and wear the crown of 
thorn ; 

Die well; and sweetly on His breast reclining, 
Be still — and wait thy resurrection mom! 

Be still ; be still ; heart of mine, be still. 



[25] 



To My Love 

AFTER TWENTY-FIVE YEARS. 

My love is like a red, red rose, kissed by the June's 
bright sun — 
That wet with the dew of the morning, blooms 
fresh in my heart for One. 
From the day that its petals opened, until this 
gladsome hour. 
There's ne'er a rose like this rose has bloomed 
in my heart's green bower. 

Full many a wintry storm has passed, and many a 
cloud in the sky. 
But the red, red rose, my love's own rose, has 
bloomed. Sweet, never to die. 
Some day a cruel, icy touch will sever the rose and 
the vine: 
And still the throb of the bounding tide that 
flows in this heart of mine; 
That touch may hush the lover's voice when the 
lover is under the sod; 
But the red, red rose of the heart's pure love, 
will bloom in the garden of God. 



[26] 



Compensation 



Wherever there's an opening flower 

There's a butterfly to caress it; 
Wherever there's a prayerful heart 

There's a God at hand to bless it. 

Wherever there's an open eye 

There's light above to greet it, 
Wherever there's a waiting soul 

There's a coming Christ to meet it. 

Wherever there's an unknown coast 
There's a sailor born t' explore it, 

Wherever there's a royal will 

There's a kingly work before it. 

No flower ever bloomed for naught 

Though it bloomed 'neath a starless night, 

There was never a heart that hoped in vain 
Tho' it died without the sight. 

There was never a wave on the ocean wide 

That never found a coast, 
Nor a billow of love on the heart's sweet tide 

That ever can be lost. 



[27] 



The Dying Year 

Die away, Old Year, die, die. 

We pause to mark thy last hours as they fly. 

We sound the knell of a long farewell, 

We lay our flowers on thy dead past hours. 

We prize these moments, and to our lips 

We press in grief thy now cold finger-tips. 

Ah ! had we only loved thy first days so 

What more of joy had been, — what less of woe! 

Die away. Old Year, die, die. 

We listen softly for thy latest sigh. 

Thy days were full of all the world's mad strife, — 

The sweat of labor, suffering, death and life. 

The ceaseless cycle of the unchanging years. 

The same old story of the wide world's tears. 

But jangling clamor's hushed about thy bier, 

And pale and silent lies the dying Year. 

Die away, Old Year, die, die. 

The pall is falling on thy latest sky. 

Thy kindly voice now hushed to us at last. 

Will henceforth sound hoarse thunders to the Past. 

dying Year! So soon Eternity! 

Wilt thou be false as we have been to thee? 

Impossible. A chaplet wet with tears 

We lay on thee, sweet, — last-dead of the Years! 



[28] 



Will o' the Wisp 

Dank and dark ; dark and drear ! 

With overhead the tangled vine; 
Dark and still, — save the cricket's cheer — 

I reign alone in this realm of mine. 

The sun, bold imp, has a hole or two 

In the topmost boughs that he will peep through 

But I hate his eye, and I glide away, 
And veil my self in my canopy. 

Still and dark! dark and still! 

Save the echo from the whip-poor-will, 
And the Katy-did's monotonous chime. 

Silence reigns in my realm sublime. 

Cool and dark! — dark and cool! 

I sleep all day in my mossy pool, 
Till the moccasin stirs from his hiding place 

And wakes me with his ominous hiss. 

Still and dark ! dark and damp ! 

I rise and light my ghostly lamp, 
And the bear starts up from his reedy lair, 

And the wild-cat flees at the weird flare. 

Still and dark ! — dark and still ! 

I move and stand like a sentinel. 
Or hold my weird lamp on high 

For a ghostly dance of a race gone by. 
[29] 



Dank and dark, dark and still — 
I walk my solemn round until, 

The owl returns to his reedy fen. 
And I lie down to my sleep again. 



[30] 



Converted 



A Pessimist strolled, with head bowed down 

And countenance dejected, — 
Looking for what he always found, 

He got what he expected. 

For once howe'er, there struck his eyes 

And charmed his rapt attention, 
A sight that filled him with surprise : — 

A purse of large dimension. 

"'Tis nought," said he, "'Tis useless trash; 

Some luckless wight has lost it; 
For, ten to one, it holds no cash, — 

'Tis empted ere I crossed it." 

"I'll open it my luck to try 

To see what may lie in it. 
And sate my curiosity : 

If full — why then, I win it. 

He looked, and lo! within the fold 

All beautiful and shining 
Ten coins, his happy eyes beheld, 

The leathern pouch are lining! 

He paused; he thought; he changed his mind; 

"I'll cease my sad repining; 
Henceforth I'll seek this "lovely" kind — 

That wears the "silver lining.' " 
[31] 



An Optimist forthwith was he, 
His face was always shining, 

He looked at things always to see- 
That had a "silver 



[32] 



"Tin-Ware to Mend" 

As I sat one day, all worn and faint 
And nursed my cares and made complaint 
That 'twas vain indeed life thus to spend 
In a round of cares that should never end ; 
There came a song on the morning air, — 
It fell upon my listening ear, 
And sweet and clear and loud it rang 
And this was the plaintive song he sang. 

"Tin-ware to mend, Tin-ware to mend." 
When shall my song and journey end? 

A burden in both hands he bore 

And worn and torn were the clothes he wore, 

But his step so firm and his song so free 

Another lesson taught to me. 

That as I bear life's load along 

The best companion is a song. 

And if I'd banish all my cares 

Why mend like him, my neighbors' wares. 

His step was light and he trudged right on 

And the morn and the mender soon were gone, 

The song and the echo died away. 

But the song it sang in my heart all day. 

There are leaking pots and much that ails 

All kinds of pafts and tubs and pails 

In every house there are leaking wares — 

In every heart there are carking cares. 

[33] 



But this wasn't all that I thought that day, 
As the song and the echo died away, 
That the way to banish all my cares 
Is to treat them as we do tin wares : 
Lay them aside 'till a sunny day, 
Wait 'til the mender comes my way. 
Thankful enough there's a chance to mend 
My broken vows ere my journey end. 



[34] 



My Love's a Canny Thief 

I. 

Where gat my Love her beauty — ? 
Where gat my Love her beauty? 

My Love's a canny thief, you know, 
That's how she gat her beauty. 
She stole the azure frae the skies. 
And hid it slyly in her eyes ; 
She stole the pearls frae out their deeps, 
And hid them 'twixt her ruby lips ; 
She robbed the violets of their breath. 
To madden wights like me therewith: — 

My Love's a canny thief, you know, 

That's how she gat her beauty — 0. 



IL 



Where gat my Love her witcherie ? 
Where gat my Love her cunning? 

My Love's a canny thief, you see : — 
That's how she gat her cunning. 
She once a meadow brook beguilded. 
And stole a dimple while it smiled ; 
She robbed a red rose of its flush. 
And wrapped the dimple in its blush. 
She robbed a dew-drop of its sheen. 
And hid its brightness in her een: — 

My Love's a canny thief, you see, 

That's how she gat her witcherie. 

[35] 



III. 



How gat my Love her lovers — ? 
How gat my Love her lovers? 

My Love's a canny thief, you know, 
That's how she gat her lovers. 
She found a simple wight like me, 
She strake him senseless with her ee, 
She held him captive with her smile, 
And robbed him of his heart the while! 
And sae bewitched's a robbed lover, — 
He counts himself mare rich thrice over ! 

My Love's a canny thief, you know, 

That's how she gat her lovers 0, 



[36] 



To a Wild Rose 

I love thee, Flower, for God hath made thee fair. 
And human hand ne'er marred thy form nor 
grace. 

The gentle wing of some kind sprite of air 
Bore thee afar, and set thee in thy place. 

What though no eye but God's hath ever seen 
The beauty rare that nestles in thy breast, 

Tis fittest thus for thou hast ever been 

Too pure that on thee human eyes should rest. 

The breezes coyly kiss thy blushing face; 

The butterflies beneath thee swear their love ; — 
Enough — till Heav'n shall pluck thee for thy place 

In Paradise, — and thou shalt bloom above. 



[37] 



Glorying in the Cross 

God forbid that I should glory 
Save in Jesus Christ my Lord, — 

In his cross all stained and gory — 
Red with Jesus' precious blood. 

Angels sang above the Manger, 
Star shed glory round the place. 

Wise men sought the heavenly stranger, 
Shepherds saw thine infant grace. 

Mary felt thy fond caresses 

As thy child hand stroked her breast, 
Loving John thy bosom presses 

And his weary head finds rest. 

Radiance gilds the wondrous story, 
All thy words and works divine, 

But the cross transcends in glory 
To this sinful heart of mine. 

There, a sinner, first I saw Thee, 

There thou breakest my heart of stone; 

'Twas a sinner there Thou lovedst me. 
Healed my heart and broke thine own. 

There thy life for sin was given ; 

There the blood flowed from thy side; 
There the gate of life and heaven — 

There I live where Thou hast died. 
[38] 



"Not to us!" There is no merit 
Save in Thine atoning blood, 

Father, Son and Holy Spirit, — 
Three in one — Incarnate God! 

God forbid that I should glory- 
Save with Thee the cross to bear — 

Go where Thou hast gone before me 
Glad to suffer with thee there! 



[39] 



Left by the Tide 

Where the ocean's lips kiss the finger-tips 
Of the South, I lived — hard by the sea, 
And oft my child-heart swelled with the boast 
That I alone was lord of that coast — 
That the sea belonged to me. 

It brought me shells on its heaving swells, 
Its breezes fanned my cheeks so brown. 
And I fancied the billows came and went 
As I waved my hand and gave consent — 
And sat on my rocky throne. 

And many a time I heard the rhyme 
They sang to me — so soft and sweet; 
And I thought the great waves bowed to me, 
As they, curling, came from the deep blue sea, 
And kissed my tawny feet. 

When the sea was still it obeyed my will 
As Rome was ruled by a Csesar's nod ; 
But when the winds with their wild tumult. 
And the angry waves would all revolt — 
I would lend it awhile to God. 

One stormy night when my kingly right 

Had been usurped by the angry tide. 

And the wild winds howled and shrieked and 

raged, 
And the wild sea roared like a lion caged — 
And I clung to my mother's side — 

[40] 



I could not sleep for the noisy deep, 
It seemed to wail in the deepest pain, 
And I thought of the ship I had seen that day, 
That had bowed to me as it sailed away — 
Would it ever sail again? 

But I took my claim when the morning came, 
For the sea was calm and the sky was fair; 
A. id swift I went to the swept sea-side 
To see if aught by the wind or tide 
Had changed since I was there. 

With wondering fright I saw a sight 
I ne'er had dreamed before : 
The gallant ship that had sailed away, 
And bowed to me on yesterday — 
Was high up on the shore. 

Her masts were gone ; her rigging torn ; 
Her keel stuck fast in the deep, white sand ; 
And what had gone with her noble crew. 
Or whether they lived or died none knew— 
As she struck on that fatal strand. 

I climbed her side with a sailor's pride. 
And my kingly claims came back to me; 
With a steady tread I paced her deck 
And viewed my prize— the noble wreck 
Brought to me by the sea. 

But the pitying-child came back erewhile. 

And my true heart came to me ; 

So I laid my hand on her blackened side, 

[41] 



With tears in my voice and eyes, and cried 
"Good ship, go out to the sea !" 

But the sullen tide only lapped her side, 
As a tiger would lick his stricken prey ; 
And I hastened home with a thoughtful mein. 
And, wondering, told them what I'd seen — 
Had seen on the beach that day. 

The days went on till the months were gone. 
And I knelt one night at my mother's knee; 
My heart was pained for the ship to go, 
And I prayed to God in a whisper low — 
"Take the good ship out to sea." 

But my mother smiled at her foolish child. 
And said I knew not how to pray — 
That, by and by, if God willed so, 
When the Spring-tides came the ship might go — 
My ship might float away. 

So I watched and sighed for the full Spring-tide 
Till at last, in truth, it came to me ; 
The waves rolled high on the old ship's side — 
She staggered! "Notv!" I eager cried, — 
"Now, good ship, go out to sea !" 

But the waves rolled on and the tide was gone. 
And the good ship groaned and lay on her side. 
When I saw that her chance was gone, I wept, 
And I dreamed all night that night as I slept. 
Of ships going out with the tide. 

[42] 



And I mourned tho more as I went to the shore, 
And saw that my hope for the ship was vain ; 
But my mother dried my tearful eyes, 
And said, in the Fall the tide would rise, 
And the ship might float again. 

So I watched and sighed for the high Fall tide, 
Till it came — full, strong it came to me; 
The waves rolled high on the ship's black side — 
"She's righted up! Now! now!" I cried, 
"Now, good ship, go out to sea!" 

But the waves rolled on, and the tide was gone, 
And the old ship groaned and lay on her side; 
And I hung my head in a hopeless grief. 
And the tear drops rained for the heart's relief 
For the ship that was left by the tide. 

And the days, they fled, and my hope was dead, 
For the old ship bore so hard on her side. 
I felt I would need a stronger Hand 
Than the tide's to raise her keel from the sand, 
So I had no hope in the tide. 

But the days flew fast, and the months ran past. 
And I looked one morning toward the sea; 
And, lo! the ship was gone from view! 
Was it moved by the hand of a mystic crew? 
Had the old ship gone to sea? 

With haste I ran to the silvery strand. 
To prove to my eyes she had gone to sea ; 

But a thousand fragments strewed the lea! 
And a mystic ship sailed a mystic sea — 

The sea of eternity! 

[43] 



Remember Now Thy Creator 

Defer not thou, my son, to later years 
Remembrance of thy God; for Memory 
Is not a plant that groweth- well in age. 
In the garden of the mind it springeth first. 
And rooteth itself deep ere the plow of Time 
Hath made there many furrows. Therefore 
What thou wouldst not forget, remember now. 
For in youth the walls of Memory's hall are soft 
And every event leaves its impress there; 
But they are hard in age, and scribbled o'er, 
And what is written then is hard to read. 

Thou thinkest when thou'rt old thou'lt turn thy 

feet 
To paths of righteousness — thy thoughts to God; 
But the old man is a child again, and loveth 
The thoughts and scenes and paths he trod in 

youth. 
The old man's mind scans lightly what now pass- 

eth; 
He knoweth not the friend of yesterday ; 
He dwelleth among the tombs of those long dead. 
The eye of age is dim ; it stareth vaguely ; 
The ear is heavy and the tongue is stiff; 
The sunken lip doth not speak a new language; 
The hand unused becometh not skilled in age. 

Canst thou turn out the river from its bed? 
Then may thy thoughts in age turn back from 
evil. 

[44] 



Canst thou make tame the old lion in the forest? 

Then may'st thou quell in age thy raging pas- 
sions. 

Will the wild horse lick the salt from out thy 
hand? 

Then shall the long-unbridled Will be meek. 

Will the miser scatter his hoardings to the poor? 

Then will the evil tongue in age speak wisdom. 

If thou, then, wouldst have wisdom get it now, 

For the Wisdom of Age is but what youth hath 
gathered. 

Remember now thy God; for God is good; 
And the mind doth take its likeness from its food. 
For Memory heareth either good or evil. 
And the seed thou sowest in the virgin soil, 
Will, in the time of reaping, yield their kind; 
And if thou sowest thorns seek not for grapes ; 
For figs look not if thou hast thistles sown. 
Beware, my son ; let not thine eyes see evil, 
And never do thou lend Folly thine ear; 
For, in the time to come, when Age shall wake 
At midnight, all these evil sights shall dance 
Like horrid ghosts about thy sleepless bed, 
These sounds shall echo in thy soul, and be 
As dying groans, or screams of evil birds. 

Know now thy God, for if thou know him not. 
Thou knowest nothing though thou knowest all ; 
And though thou knowest nought yet knowest 

him, 
Thou knowest all, for He is All in All. 

[45] 



Remember God; one thought will not suffice; 
Thy soul must linger by Him — yea, abide. 
Like a sun-beam is one thought of Him — 
One drop of dew, bemoistening the ground; 
To remember Him is like the world at noon — 
The laughing field that drinketh in the shower. 

Thou needs must think on God; but evil seeds, 
Though dropped upon the wayside hard, will 
grow, 
'he Wicked One doth not devour it — 
He will not eat the fruit of his own planting — 
Yea, strange, but on the bare and stony ground — 
In the shallow mind — it sinketh quickest down, 
And twisteth its roots about the flinty rocks; 
The hot sun of affliction doth not seer it ; 
It lifteth its head amid the storms of passion. 
And flaunteth out its rank and gaudy plumes 
Though tears of salt and gall should rain upon it. 

Like death. Evil "hath all seasons for its own." 

It breedeth in the Spring and rooteth out 

The good, ere it hath taken firmly hold. 

It groweth night and day. It sendeth out 

Its roots that suck the moisture from the soil; 

It spreadeth its leaves and drinketh in the dew; 

It flourisheth amid the heat of summer; 

It droopeth not through all the sky be brass ; 

It bendeth not its head at Autumn's frosts ; 

His magic pencil toucheth not its leaves. 

It spreadeth still, though Winter's blast may 

howl; 
It groweth 'neath the snow, — aye, groweth on, 

[46] 



And draweth up the substance of the ground, 

Transmuting everything into itself, 

Till nought but Evil only can be found! 

What is in evil that should ever charm ? 

What fruit doth it bear that thou shouldst give it 

place? 
For it eateth out the spirit like a canker, 
And the poison of death is distilled from its 

flowers. 
Make not thou haste to acquaint thyself with sin, 
For thou, alas! shalt know it but too soon; 
Yea, it will come and linger at thy side; 
'Twill clasp thy neck, and nestle in thine arms. 
And though thou thrust it off, 'twill come again, 
And woo thee with its sweetest voice and smile ; 
'Twill come unbidden round thy fireside; 
'Twill haunt thy steps wherever thou dost go ; 
Yea, in thy closet when thou'st shut thy door, 
And gone upon thy knees to speak with God, 
E'en there 'twill crouch and linger at thy side. 
And stare its leering, brazen eyes in thine. 
'Twill never leave thee ; though by grace divine, 
'Tis banished from the chamber of thy heart — 
'Twill hang about thy door-way day and night 
And fawn upon thee as thou goest out; 
'Twill scrabble at thy door in midnight's hour. 
And gaunt and hungry, piteously cry, 
To be admitted to its home again. 



Know thy Creator now; for now thou canst. 
Thou darest now, for all things are unknown, 
Thou canst believe, for thou believest all. 



[47] 



But Time will pluck the feathers from Faith's 

wings, 
And unbelief must feel his way along, 
And doubt and fear will paralyze the mind. 
For he that feared to walk in youth, will not 
In blind old age leap out into the dark. 

Remember now thy God. Doth not the child 
Need most the mother's tender love and care? 
And if the tendrils of the vineling green, 
Cling not unto the trellis in its youth, 
In age, 'twill be too late ; and groping low, 
'Twill wander prone and barren on the ground. 
Call now thy God. How quick the mother's ear 
Doth seize the first wee word her infant says; 
He'll hear thee now, — perhaps in years after 
Thou'lt call him but he will not answer thee. 

Remember God. He thinketh on thee now — 
He stretcheth out his hand to guide and aid ; 
How beautiful above all earthly sights, 
When ruddy youth to God doth plight its troth, 
And sweetly lays its timid hand in His. 



[48] 



A Reporter's Experience 

[Written on the circumstances of the death of a certain American 
millionaire. Published in The Atlanta Constitution.] 

'Twas the month of December and the world was 

a-f reeze ; 
There was snow on the earth, in the air; on the 

trees, 
The mantle of winter was thrown in its grace. 
As white and as cold as a Pharisee's face, 
I had taken my notebook and pencil in hand. 
And, wrapped in my greatcoat, had taken my 

stand 
Near the house where the rich man was breathing 

his last. 
And the hungry winds howled for his soul as they 



I listened to catch the first sign of his death 
To whisper abroad on the telegraph's breath. 
When, Och! I heard the sigh of a ghost 
As it breathed on my ear as cold as the frost, 
And I felt on my hand, as cold as the ice, 
The grip of a ghost with the hold of a vise ; 
And my blood ran chill as his hoarse voice said : 
"Come go with me down to the land of the dead." 
I struggled to speak, but ere I said "Nay," 
On the wings of the wind I was hurried away. 
We traveled like lightning o'er forest and fen, 
Till we came to a gorge in a mountain ; and then — 
We dropped and we fell, till my senses had fled. 
And we landed due south in the land of the dead. 

[49] 



My first of sensations, when at length I awoke, 
Were the nearness of fire and the smell of the 

smoke ; 
"From the third of December to the fourth of 

July, 
Is rather a sudden transition," said 1, 
So I pulled off my overcoat, rolled up my sleeves, 
And fanned with my notebook to stir up a breeze. 
When, in a few minutes, I was led by the ghost. 
To the gate that enclosed the home of the lost. 
We gave a loud knock, and there came to the door 
The devil himself — I had seen him before. 
I said: "Please your honor, you remind me so 

much 
Of the gentleman near me last Sunday in church." 
"'Twas not I," said the devil, and he winked as he 

smiled — 
"'Twas my oldest son, Hypocrite — favorite child." 
"But who," said the devil, "is this by your side?" 
"'Tis the soul of a great millionaire," I replied. 
"What's his name?" he inquired. "But no mat- 
ter; the spirits 
Must be tried in this court, each case on its merits, 
So ghost, you might as well loosen your tongue, 
Say what you have done, I where you belong." 
Quoth the ghost, in a dismal and terrified tone : 
"I loved money, loved money; that's what I have 

done." 
"Loved money," said Satan, in very surprise, 
"And whence have you come ? For I swear by my 

eyes. 
You are the first ghost to make such confession, 
Since first I have entered on Tophet's possession. 

[50] 



Loved money? By odds, you're the honestest 

ghost 
That ever set foot on the land of the lost." 
And he laughed, and he slapped his black hands 

at the joke. 
Till the sulphur flames danced, and he sneezed at 

the smoke. 
*'Why, the bulk of my prisoners come from the 

skies — 
Forwarded here for their money-love lies. 
With one it is 'Prudence,' with another it is 

'Providing' 
For Children and 'Rainy days' — all ways of hid- 
ing 
Covetous hearts. Dear sir, you deserve 
To rule as a prince in this dismal reserve, 
For I tell you, of all the precincts of the damned, 
The room of the covetous is the worse crammed. 
There are lawyers, and doctors, and prophets and 

preachers. 
And merchants, and bankers and Sunday school 

teachers ; 
They come from the north, and the east, west and 

south. 
And every last one with a lie in his mouth! 
Hail fellow, well met. But go on, you must show 
The depths of your infamy, that I may know 
Where to place you." Said the ghost: "Well sir, 

as I've said it, 
I not only loved money, but, alas ! I have made it !'* 
"Indeed!" cried the devil, "that heightens your 

crime, 
And warrants you place in this Plutonic clime. 

[51] 



There be many that love it, who are counting on 

heaven, 
But to love it and make it can ne'er be forgiven. 
What else?" "Why, I kept what I made as my 

own." 
"What," said the devil, "is it this you have done? 
Thrice damned! But tell me the reason, I pray, 
You hoarded your treasure and gave none away? 
I frequently visit the scene of your life — 
I have watched, with great int'rest, the struggle 

and strife; 
I have seen the mad millions who labor and die 
For chance to e'en push at the straight 'needle's 

eye;' 
* 'Tis no sin to be rich,' there are thousands who 

say, 
'Provided you make it and give some away.' 
You may lay up your stocks and your gold on the 

shelf ; 
Enjoy the world and live for yourself; 
You may swindle the earth and dead-beat the 

heaven, 
But to die full of riches can ne'er be forgiven. 
In a word, you may dig all your days for the 

'root,' 
But damned be the fellow that gathers the fruit! 
But a question I'd ask and then I shall know 
Your place more exact in the regions of woe — 
When death came at last and your wealth you 

must leave it. 
Pray tell me, to whom did your last will bequeath 

it?" 
"To my children." "Indeed," said the devil, 

[52] 



"I've hardly an imp who will sink to your level! 
"And why," he continued, "when you came to the 

last, 
Did you fling not a crumb to the world as you 

passed? 
'Twould have left sons enough, and a million or 

two 
Would have 'canonized,' nearly, a fellow like you. 
Had you built an asylum, or founded a school. 
They'd have called you a saint instead of a fool; 
They'd have lauded your genius, sounded your 

praise, 
And honored your memory on through the days." 
"True," said the ghost, "but what would it profit 
To come as a 'saint' to the regions of Tophet? 

And come, if I must, I will come as I am 

A right honest devil's ahead of a sham." 
"Good!" cried the devil, and he gave him his 

hand ; 
"Thrice welcome you are to Beelzebub's land." 
And he stamped his split foot, and gave a loud 

roar. 
And, on a sudden, there opened a door. 
And all of hell's millions we saw at one view. 
He entered in state, and beckoned us through. 
"Kings and subalterns," he cried, "I have come 
To welcome this stranger, in form to his home. 
I have tested his case, and examined him well, 
I decide he deserves a high seat in hell. 
I congratulate self and congratulate you. 
Indeed, the new guest I congratulate, too. 
For if Moses spoke true, he has this consolation — 
We are certain to capture the whole ijankee na- 
tion!" 

[53] 



Death of John T. Morgan 

Alabama mourns today; 

Her foremost son lies chill and dead; 
Her bosom now receives his clay, 

As on her breast he lays his head. 

Hushed be the tongues of mortals here, 
Nor praise nor blame the hour invade ; 

Let Silence wait about his bier. 
As to its rest his form is laid. 

From the mountains to the sea, — 
Counting all thy children o'er, — 

None e'er lived more true than he, 

Nor lived that loved thee, Mother, more. 

Thy pines will sing his requiem — 
His deeds will speak in after years, — 

Thy South-wind, it will sigh for him, — 
His panegyric be our tears. 

June 14, IQ07 



[54] 



The Battle of Wounded Knee 

On the rocky lea of Wounded Knee 

The red clans gathered strong; 
For a chieftan's ghost had stirred the host 

To avenge his nation's wrong. 
A thousand eyes had seen him rise 

In the leaping flames of fire 
That burned on the heights as signal lights 

To rouse the nation's ire. 

From far and near with whoop and cheer, 

The untamed warriors ride, 
Till Wounded Knee looks like a sea — 

A troubled sea in tide. 
There are warriors here, and warriors there — 

The last of a warrior race; 
And bold Red Cloud in the midst of the crowd 

The chief in mien and place. 

But who are these at the warrior's knees? 

And who are those near by? 
The women have come from their wig-wam home 

To see their husbands die . 
For the love of a wife is stronger than life, 

And death is love's last test; 
And a woman's love is born from above 

Though it beat in a "savage" breast. 

But who are these at the women's knees? 
I hear a child's sad cry — 

[55] 



Have the children come from their wigwam home, 

To see their mothers die? 
They're one in woe — to die in the snow, 

Or starve on the mountain wild ; 
They're one in blood, in ill, in good — 

The father, mother, child. 



The battle's done; the storm is gone — 

The storm and hail of lead; 
And the night winds moan, and the dying groan, 

And the cold-faced moon turns red. 
As it views the slain on that bloody plain. 

And a Christian nation's fame! 
And the dark snow-cloud is only shroud 

To hide a nation's shame. 

But the saddest word the wild winds heard 

That night so weird and wild, 
Was the lonely cry, to the cold night sky 

Of a helpless little child. 
Close, close 'twas laid by its mother dead. 

But cold that mother's breast; 
She loved as wife — in death, in life. 

But she loved her baby best. 



[56] 



The Bridge o'er the Rolling-Tide 

'Twas twilight ; and by a swift river's side 
A Prophet sat, — sat looking at the tide 

That solemn rolled, and whispered as it swirled, 
In accents broken of another world. 
And as he sat and looked and listened there, 
Strange voices from the river he could hear. 
Sometimes with music soft and sweet and low, 
'Twould sing a song of Peace as it did flow; 
And then 'twould breathe a sad and plaintive 

strain, — 
Perchance a note of Praise, — ^then hush again. 
But whether it sang or whether it. sighed 
'Twas one, this theme of the Rolling-tide, — 
The Land of Peace on the other side! 

A narrow way, worn smooth by many feet. 
Came to the place where sands and waters meet; 

And many foot-prints in the sand were there; 

And some turned back, and others, — God 
knows where! 
For they went on into the turbid tide. 
And none could know if they had lived or died. 

Adown this path a woman came apace. 

With earnest step and sad but hopeful face; 
But coming to the river's brink amazed, 
She stopped, as out upon the tide she gazed. 

"Can this be the way?" she asked the Seer; 

" — The way to Freedom? Cross we here? 

And is it deep in the water there?" 

[57] 



The Prophet said: "Thy way indeed is right, 
But not thyself: this is no Pilgrim's plight: 
Who crosses here to Freedom and to Peace, 
Must all the world, — aye, life itself release. 
Return; thyself, thy sins all lay aside, 
Then come again and try the Rolling-tide." 
The woman turned; she went and came again: 
Her jewels gone, her raiment pure and plain. 
She stood before the Prophet. "Here am I," 
She said, — "to cross this river or to die." 
With dauntless courage, in she stepped. 
And out and down the current swept; 
And the Prophet hid his face and wept. 

And as the turgid torrent swift rolled on, 

All through that night of waiting till the dawn. 

New voices ever issued from the tide, — 

Calling, still calling to the other side. 
The Prophet watched, and ere the night was o'er. 
Another pilgrim stood upon the shore, 

Who'd heard strange voices in a troubled 
dream, 

And dared to brave the terrors of the stream. 
He watched till thousands thus had followed on, 
And plunged into the river and were gone. 

"Alas! alas!" the Prophet cried, 

"For what have all these thousands died? 

To glut the greed of this cruel tide?" 

There stood another on the shore that morn, 
So pure, so weary and forlorn! 

"Is this the way?" she trembling asked the 
Seer, — 

[58] 



"The way to Peace and Freedom? Cross we 
here? 
The Prophet rose, and smiting on his breast, 
Implored high Heaven to grant his soul's request, 
And make a way to Peace and Freedom's 

shore, 
Without the sacrifice of one soul more. 
And o'er the waters swift the answer came: 
"Weep not: there is a better way down stream!" 
He led the devious way aright, 
And ere the rising sun was bright, 
A wondrous vision struck his sight: — 

Behold! a human bridge! — built up of them 
Who freely gave their bodies to the stream! 
With hair entangled and their arms around 
Each other clasped, in death's last struggle 
bound, 
They make a bridge, that stretched from shore 

to shore. 
Whereon forever pilgrims may walk o'er! 
Land of Freedom, blest Land of Peace ! 
How many live in thee through death of these ! 
And when thy sun at noontide shines most bright, 
Forget not them who perished in the night, — 
The swimmers who have never reached the 

strand. 
But died to make a highway to thy Land. 
And this is the glory of them that died : — 
A Way across the Rolling-tide, — 
And a land of Peace on the other side! 

[59] 



Through the endless round that earth rolls over, 
The mightiest man is the mightiest lover, 
And the Christliest lover is he who dies, — 
Who sinks in the flood that others may rise. 



[60] 



Would You? 

I would not if I might — ^had I my way- 
Turn back the night and make one livelong day; 
The solemn hush, the starlight and the dew, 
But spring the Morrow for its race anew. 

Nor would I, if I might— had I my way- 
Halt Sorrow in her flight and banish tears away; 
The pain, the heart-crush and the sorrow 
Are morning song-birds to th' eternal morrow. 



[61] 



''Allons, Enfants 



99 



The Patriot falls, he never dies, 

Though tyrants may account him slain; 

A thousand from his blood shall rise 
And battle on for right again. 

As long as shine the stars of night. 
As long as beats the ocean wave, 

And God is God and man is brave — 
So long will man for freedom fight. 

Let cowards crave a coward's pay, 
The craven's knee to tyrants bend — 

The Brave shall win the field some day. 
And Truth will triumph in the end! 



[62] 



After All 

'Tis not the rate we travel 
But the point to which we tend, 
That makes the mighty difference 
'Twixt the racers in the end. 

He who serves the god of Mammon, 
And Hves at hghtning speed, 
May seem to win the prizes 
Where the goal is only greed. 

But the plodder on the highway 

Where virtue is the prize. 
Will find the long — the nigh-way 
At the final Grand Assize. 



[63] 



AUG 12 1911 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



»•'- 12 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

liiiiiiiiiiiiii! 

015 873 284 1 ^ 




